The Mind is a Puzzle Box
by kasviel
Summary: M/M Slash. Scarecrow/Riddler.
1. Chapter 1

**01**

Jonathan Crane sat in his cell one night, counting sticks of straw. The guards had not managed to clean it all up after his last escape attempt, but they _had_, after two months, granted him nights without restraint for good behavior. The thin, tall man sat with his back against the wall, spine straight, legs reaching out long in front of him. With his neatly trimmed brown hair and thin-framed glasses sitting atop his long nose, he looked more like a professor than an inmate, even in the standard-issue orange Arkham Asylum inmate uniform.

His singsong count, however, somewhat skewed his composed appearance.

_"One, two_

_Buckle my shoe . . . "_

In the cell next to him, Edward Nigma scowled. He lay on his stomach atop his unadorned cot, a newspaper crossword puzzle spread out in front of him. A guard had just smuggled in the paper earlier in the evening, and it had taken Nigma more effort than expected to sneak a crayon in from the activity center (pointed objects were rarely seen in Arkham). Edward loved the smell of new newspaper, the inky and dry scent that went along with blank squares waiting to be filled in. He was trying to best his previous record of completing a giant puzzle in under three minutes, but, well, even geniuses of his caliber were not immune to distraction.

_"Five, six_

_Pick up sticks . . . "_

Edward broke the tip off his green crayon in a moment of annoyed pressure. Irritated to no end, he shouted at the wall between them,

"Seven, eight

God, it's LATE!"

For a moment, there was absolute silence. Edward smiled smugly, "Hmph", and leaned over his crossword again. Just as he was filling out some squares with the woefully dull crayon, a cold voice murmured into his ear,

_"Nine, ten_

_A big, fat hen."_

Edward's crayon streaked across the page as his shoulders hunched in fright, and his heart skipped a beat. He lifted his head and looked around the cell, but it was empty. Though his eyes remained wide, he told himself that Crane had spoken through a crack in the crumbling old walls, nothing more. Still, it would not be a good idea to provoke him.

Crane went back to counting. Nigma put the puzzle away under his mattress and lay over the bed with a sigh. He hung his head down the edge, guillotine-style, and he stared regretfully at the rough cement floor.

"What are you counting, anyway?" he asked sullenly, rolling onto his back now. "Let me guess, your IQ points?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Crane sniffed. "No. The patients. _My _patients. Here."

"How unimaginative," retorted Edward. "Question: What runs in circles but never retraces its steps?"

Silence. Mistaking this for a lack of an answer on Crane's part, Edward grinned smugly. He waited for just the right moment, and then announced, "Answer: A clock! It's always the same circle, but it's never the same time twice!"

Crane did not respond.

"The numbers repeat, but every day is different," Edward explained. "Too obscure for you? Linear time?"

Edward became giddy with triumph, as Jonathan said nothing, picturing a confounded look on the ex-psychiatrist's stern face. He rolled onto his stomach again, looking at the wall, and gloated, "Oh ho ho! I'm disappointed in you, _doctor_. That was an easy one!"

More silence. Then, "I have never . . . _treated _you, have I, Mr. Nigma?"

Edward's smile froze. "Eh?"

"Patient number, let's see-" There was the sound of shuffling and scratching, as Jonathan fumbled with the straws. "Patient number twenty-one. Now, when can I pencil you in for an appointment?"

Nigma stared at the wall, no longer smiling. His blood had run cold. "Y-You have no sense of humor, Dr. Crane!" he laughed, unable to hide his mounting fear. "I was just-"

"Two-o-clock on Friday will be fine," Crane said, believably professional. "I look forward to seeing you. Thank you, Mr. Nigma."

"You're not a psychiatrist anymore!" Edward yelled at him, climbing off the bed and sitting directly in front of the wall. "That was what I meant by the clock riddle! You have no practice, no patients! Your _time_ is over!"

Silence.

Edward dropped on hand and knee to speak into the cracks in a weak spot of the wall. "Do you hear me?" he hissed. "Crane? Crane!"

"Dr. Crane is out for the night. Please call back in the morning."

Edward just stared, aghast. Too proud to plead, he got to his feet haughtily, straightening his dusty Arkham uniform. "H-hmph! You're all talk!"

Regardless, Edward lay on his bed for a long time without sleeping that night. It was true that he had never been "treated" by the Scarecrow, but he knew the man's fear gas was enough to nearly break _Batman_. If Gotham's self-proclaimed protector had fears he could not conquer, Nigma knew that he stood no chance of overcoming the effects of the fear gas. He had always felt small in the world, small and afraid … afraid of so many things …

_No, _Edward told himself. _No, no, no. I'm not. I'm too smart to be afraid of phantoms in the night! It's the fear of being afraid. That's how he weakens people, gets them ripe for the plucking of their sanity. Well, I won't fall for it. Not me, the most brilliant mind in the asylum!_

_I am the one puzzle he will **never **figure out!_


	2. Chapter 2

**02**

Edward's resolve led him to deal with the situation as he always dealt with dangerous situations: He decided to run away.

As he was considered low-risk for the lack of mass murder on his criminal record, Edward Nigma had considerable influence with the guards of the asylum. Some thought him harmless, sad, or generally insignificant. Some found him sympathetic, or intriguing. Some even admired him. He also had the benefit of being fairly new to the asylum, and that was a novelty that attracted no little amount of curiosity. Using these sentiments and manipulating them with his smooth talk and empty promises, Edward was able to finagle his way into securing an escape before his "appointment" with Dr. Jonathan Crane.

However, one afternoon in the social room, Jonathan Crane was overheard to be saying, "How I hate it when they reschedule."

Jervis Tetch, the Hatter, looked at him, and chirped, "I'm late! I'm late!"

To which Crane replied,

"A diller, a dollar, a ten o'clock scholar!

What makes you come so soon?

You used to come at ten o'clock,

But now you come at noon."

The two shared a laugh, and no one else heard. Even if they had, it would have merely been regarded as the usual psycho-babble. Only Nigma would have recognized the underlying threat in the childish rhyme.

Wednesday evening, it was arranged that Edward would be the very last to shower, and thus have the open stalls to himself. He was a low-risk patient, being of the non-murdering variety, and had only a single guard assigned to him. This guard was the one that had given him the crossword, and by now the two were friends (at least, the ignorant guard believed so).

There was an air vent that was unused this time of year that led from the back of the dressing area into the maintenance sections of the basements. The guard had left a janitor's uniform back there for Edward, so he could simply go through the vent and from there get out of the asylum.

Edward smiled to himself as he bathed, figuring it was his last shower in Arkham for a long while. He even washed his coppery red hair and pushed it back from his high forehead. He was actually tall, 6' 1", and had a lean body that had good, if wiry, muscle tone. Being one of the few non-deformed residents, he had had his share of trouble in the showers . . . though he normally talked, puzzled, or otherwise wormed his way out of the unwanted propositions. Still, it _was_ nice to bathe without worrying about it.

Edward frowned. The water felt cold, and there was a strange scent in the air: an unlikely blend of mint, bleach, and anise. It was not unpleasant, but it had a numbing effect on his nose. After a minute it faded, and Edward figured that it was residue from the strong cleaning chemicals they used regularly.

Anyway, it was about time to go. Edward slipped out of the showers to the locker area that held uniforms, and dressed in the janitor's outfit. Then, he climbed into the air vent, and crawled into the rusty bowels of the old asylum.

_There is something degrading about being dressed as a janitor_, thought the arrogant genius as he sneezed from the stagnant, dusty air. _First thing I do is going to be getting a new suit. Something darker green this time. That other suit looked almost neon in the city lights, and my complexion looked ghastly. Damn my tailor anyway! Which reminds me . . . _

_Why did the tired tailor drop his needle?_

Edward dropped out of the vents, landing lithely on his feet. His dark red hair was falling into his face, wet and dusty. Still, he grinned, thinking of his riddle.

_Because he had a stitch in his side!_

_Oh, I love that one!_

As the man strode through the pipe-lined and vent-choked corridors chuckling, a shadow moved with him. It was so silent, it did not even interrupt the monotonous drips and scurrying of rats that echoed through the basement. Long, branch-like fingers felt their way through the tunnels, and bloodshot eyes followed the unsuspecting puzzler from behind, enjoying an amusement of their own.

At a split in the paths, Edward slowed to a stop. Suddenly, the map of the asylum he had memorized before coming here was a vaguer memory than it should have been. He looked from path to path, uncharacteristically confounded.

_How can I be uncertain? _he wondered in disgust. _I know this place by heart! No, by __**mind**__. I'm a genius! I never forget! I have perfect memory!_

Edward smiled, but it was a weak attempt at confidence. He forged ahead down the right-most passage. After a few moments, his smile faded, and he doubled back and this time took the left-most. Several paces down, he stopped again, and looked over his shoulder dubiously.

"I . . . I know the way," he tried to reassure himself softly, the echo of the basement making his voice sound small and thin. "I **know **the way. I got this."

He ran back to the split, but now it appeared to have more paths than before. Which way had he even come from? Edward licked his dry lips, green eyes darting around desperately. Why didn't he remember? Which way _was _it? Was he . . .

"I'm not- not lost," he told himself, looking on the verge of panic. He smiled maniacally now, though it was garish on his pale face. Swallowing hard, he run down a corridor. "I'm **not **lost! I know, I know the way!"

The pipes twisted endlessly, and he felt the weight of his memorized blueprints upon his mind, tangled as a labyrinth. He felt smaller than ever, like a mouse in a maze. How could he have been reduced to feeling like such an inferior intellect? How could _he _have forgotten . . .

"I know, I know, I know," he repeated the mantra to himself as he ran on, turning this way and that. "I know the solution. I _always _know the solution!"

A voice oozed out from the maze, hollow and detached, "_You know because you cheated._"

Edward slowed to a stop, all the overconfident mania draining from his face. He was panting by now, and had broken out into a cold sweat. His gaze darted around, wild and paranoid. "Who said that?"

"_You always know because you always cheat. The only thing you've ever figured out is to look at the answers before the questions._"

Edward's bottom lip actually trembled, and he drew a huffy breath. "That isn't true," he said scornfully. "I'm brilliant. You're just jealous."

The voice was closer now. "Jealous of a liar and a cheat? Jealous of a weak, sniveling pretender?"

"I don't lie!" Edward shouted childishly. "I _don't_ lie! You're the coward! Come out! Why don't you? I'm not . . . scared of you."

His voice trailed off, and he felt his legs shaking, his fingernails digging into his palms. His breathing was heavy, but no longer due to physical strain. He swallowed again, but his voice remained scratchy as he whispered, "I'm not . . . scared . . . "

A strange cackle filled the air, echoing from every corner of the dank basement. The shadow slithered from out of nowhere, materializing before the frightened man. A patchwork mask hid all but bloodshot blue eyes and a toothy grin framed by loose stitches. A noose around the neck held the mask on, and a wide-brimmed, tattered brown hat threw a shadow over it. Straw poked out like hair from beneath the hat, which the man drew further down with a hand that looked like twigs: bony fingers wrapped in brown, pieced-together leather gloves.

"You _are _scared, but you know you deserve it," said the artificially distorted voice of Jonathan Crane. "Liar. Cheat."

"No, I-" Edward's voice cracked, and he shook his head, frowning in confusion. "You, _you're _cheat-cheating . . . You're not my- You're not . . . "

Edward's vision flickered, splicing the Scarecrow's image with that of another from long ago: a tall man that resembled Edward, but lacked his high forehead. This man was hefty, with arms like a boxer's, and his face was twisted with the slack fury of a drunkard.

"You're not my-" Edward's breath ran short, and he felt dizzy. "Not my . . . "

Edward fell to his knees, holding his head. He was unable to breath for several minutes, and he clutched his chest with one hand. His mind felt . . . There was no pain, but he felt it warping, as if the gray matter was shifting, breaking . . . His mind, his precious, _precious _genius mind was being ripped apart.

"All you have is based on lies," Scarecrow continued, circling him. "You aren't a genius. You are nothing but a lying, cheating, miserable little fool."

"No!" Edward gasped from the floor. "No, you- You're not my father! You're the Scare- You're the Sca-"

"Lying again? I'll show you."

Edward was yanked to his feet by the arm. Suddenly, he was not a grown man, but a young, skinny kid in a big T-shirt with a beer slogan and old, ratty green sneakers. The basement maze was now an decrepit house, screen door closed against a hot summer night, walls dingy from cigarette smoke. The air stank of greenery, tobacco, and more than anything else, cheap whiskey.

It was not Scarecrow dragging him along now.

"-many times do I have to tell you? You're no damned genius!" a slurred voice yelled down at him. "Stupid kid! I'll teach you to lie!"

The child Edward was crying, trying hopelessly to break free of the man's rough hand. "I'm sorry, daddy! I-I-I won't, I-" He broke into sobs. "But I didn't lie! I didn't! I really did pass the test! I really did! Why don't you believe-oowww!"

His father slapped him across the face, shook him violently. "How dare you lie to me now! Stop lying! You're a goddamned little cheat! A cheat! Just like your goddamned mother!"

Edward was slapped again, then thrown to the floor. He lay helplessly as he was kicked around, trying to shield himself with his small, bony hands. Then, his father removed his belt, and crouched over him menacingly. Despite having the same green eyes, Edward's father's were hazed and bloodshot from alcohol and did not have their son's bright spark. He had a heavy shadow of stubble and wore only worn jeans and a white tank. He was nobody, just white trash on the block, and Edward knew this- but he was powerless against this man. What did that make him? Less than nothing?

Fear always won out against pride. As he always had and always would, Edward cried out and begged pitifully. "Daddy, no! Daddy, stop! I won't . . . lie! Please, stop! Stop!"

And, in reality, Edward Nigma, an adult writhing on the floor in the grips of his wounded mind, screamed as he had as a child.

"AAAAGGGHHHH!"


	3. Chapter 3

**03**

Hours passed. Edward lay spread eagle on the floor, staring blindly up at the basement ceiling's maze of pipes. His face was red but pale beneath the flush, and tear-stained. His copper hair was matted to his head with sweat, and his pupils were still dilated with terror. He was hyperventilating, the breaths heaving his slender frame, and making small, whimpering sounds. Finally, he gave a last, heart-wrenching wail, and curled into a fetal position. He sobbed loudly into his arms with unrestrained misery.

The Scarecrow was entwined into the pipes above, watching him with a languid fascination. It always wound down after that climax of screams: varying shades of fear to misery and back again. He yawned, realizing that it must be near morning by now. This batch of fear gas had turned out far stronger than he ever would have imagined. Yet even such a long reaction was not enough. It was never enough.

Jonathan Crane removed the hat, straw wig, and mask, and put on his glasses. Then, he jumped down and stood over his victim like a cat over a dead mouse.

"You were a model- No, an _exceptional _patient," he told Nigma, crouching down in front of him. "Your screams of terror were so unconstrained, so _natural_." He idly rustled a hand through Edward's lanky hair. "Mm. I wish they all could be like you."

Edward yelped at his touch, moving his head away. "Don't, don't! Don't, please, don't hit me again! Please, stop! Just … just stop."

"I didn't _actually _hit you," Jonathan murmured. He sat back with his hands in a steeple before his mouth, thinking. "Do you feel it? Do you honestly-"

He reached down and squeezed the man's upper thigh, and Nigma howled in imagined pain. A sadistic smile crossed Dr. Crane's thin lips.

"Well, this new batch really _is _stronger," he remarked. "I could never completely trick the mind into feeling actual pain, not as strongly as this, certainly not for such a long duration. I can't wait to test it on the Batman!"

He looked down the passageway, and suddenly realized that he would be able to escape using Edward's plan. He had been so caught up in tormenting the man that he had not once considered breaking out himself.

Crane looked down at Edward, pondering him. It would be risky to bring someone so shattered with him, but . . . Well. How could he leave behind such a pleasing specimen?

"Come on." He took Edward by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Edward swatted at him and protested. Though he hated to comfort pain, he briskly hushed him, "It's all right, Mr. Nigma. I'm not going to hurt you. We have to leave now, and- Oh!"

Edward suddenly threw his arms around him, and he froze. His spine went rigid, as he felt the other man's warmth seeping into his body. For a moment, the fear-monger felt a pang of fear himself, and it angered and confused him. "U-um . . . " The Scarecrow just stood, mask, hat, and wig in one hand, the other still holding Edward's arm. "Ah . . . . "

Nigma was hysterical, and the former psychiatrist knew there was sometimes no dealing with hysteria (other than a tranquilizer in a major artery). With a heavy sigh, he returned the embrace mechanically, soothing the man. "Th-there . . . There, there. It's . . . all right now." His voice sounded a bit stern still, and he cleared his throat. Looked fully into Edward's crazed eyes, he allowed himself to warm with sympathy. It had been many years since he had stopped to remember all the times _he _had been so broken by fear, and suddenly it came flooding back to him. The doctor was earnest as he said, "No one is going to hurt you now."

Edward seemed to believe him, and sniffled as he calmed. Jonathan took his hand in his own, surprised by how intimate the simple gesture felt, and led him through the tunnel. Edward followed, though he remained paranoid and occasionally burst into sobs all over again.

As they walked along, Jonathan Crane's brow was furrowed deeply. Now that he had let his old memories in, they did not want to be shut away again. The abuse Edward suffered from his father reminded him of the smothering over-protection he had suffered from his mother. Nigma, Senior had never believed his son was a genius; Mrs. Crane had never believed her son was a man. The first person you ever fear is always a parent.

Edward broke down towards the end of the tunnels, breaking out of Crane's bony hand. "Where are you taking me?" he asked frantically. "I don't want to go home! Don't make me go back there!"

Jonathan glanced worriedly out the barred windows near the exit. Dawn was breaking.

"No, no, I'm not taking you home," he said urgently. "Please, Mr. N- Edward. Please, listen to me."

"No. No! No!"

Jonathan tried to grab his hands, but Edward fought him away. He turned to run, and Crane had to grab him violently by the shoulders, causing him to struggle more. Though he was not as weak as his frail frame would suggest, Jonathan preferred not to tussle in any situation. It was always a bore and a hassle.

Edward fought with all the strength of a helpless child, but he was no longer actually a boy. His long limbs were taught from the effort, and his flailing fists were quite capable. Jonathan was barely able to restrain him. One of Edward's blows grazed his cheek, knocking his glasses askew and bruising his cheekbone.

"Stop it!" he snapped. "Don't make me gas you again."

The words surprised him as he spoke them. Why _didn't_ he simply use the fear gas again? It always made even the strongest person _manageable_. Of course, another round with this strong batch might break Edward Nigma permanently, but wouldn't that be fun to see?

For some reason, Jonathan just couldn't see the appeal in it. Still, this was no time to worry about his own muddled emotions.

"Edward, listen- Edward! Ed-" Jonathan slammed the man against the wall with a burst of strength, holding both wrists against it to restrain him. He felt a tickle of pleasure as he saw Nigma flinch. "**Listen**!"

Their eyes met, and rational, methodical Jonathan Crane was overtaken by the urge to kiss him. Their lips met next, and he was delighted to taste the gasp as it happened, to inhale that fear. The days in the asylum were long and lonely. This was the most vibrant physical contact either man had felt in a very long time. Being an inmate, one was not picky about one's choices, and took pleasure as it came.

It was soothing at first, but then the kiss became rough, eager. Edward squirmed out of it, protesting weakly, and then loudly. He struggled, but Crane had him firmly against the wall. The other man pressed into him, kissing his neck, his shoulder. Edward became desperate, screaming now.

Crane had to tear himself away from that symphony of frightful panic. He stared at Edward, breathing labored, body burning hot and flushed. He wanted him. It had been many years since he had yearned for anyone in this way, and all those years seemed to have been stored up for now, for _him_. He was so vulnerable, so frightened, and so handsome. Quirky, maybe too sharp-featured to some, but appealing- very appealing.

And his mind! Jonathan ran a hand through Edward's hair, over his head, stroking the temple. Edward flushed and turned his face uncomfortably. "Mmph."

Such a mind! It was brilliant and complex, but so deliciously soft and fragmented, like a child's mind matured with intellect rather than experience. How many more fears lay uncovered in its secret chambers? How many more layers were waiting to be stripped away?

"Come with me," Jonathan said softly, pleadingly. He brushed the side of his face against Edward's cheek. "Please."

"No, no. I don't want to go- go-"

"You are not going home," Crane told him. Then, a thought occurred to him, and he said, "We're going to a contest. A puzzle contest."

Edward eyed him warily. "We are?"

"Yes!" Jonathan took his hand in his own again. "Let's, er, practice. How about . . . about that?" Something the Hatter had spouted once came to mind, and he said, "Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

Edward thought, frowning. "Because the notes for which they are noted are not noted for being musical notes."

"No, no, that isn't right."

Distracted by Lewis Carroll's answer-less riddle, Edward allowed himself to be pulled through the corridor as he thought. "Because Poe wrote on both."

Jonathan smiled, pleased that he had outwitted the Riddler. "Wrong!"

"The both have inky quills?"

"Oh no. That's terrible."

So, it went on. They exited Arkham Asylum onto the shores of the island where the sewage emptied into the ocean. There was a small, unguarded boat waiting away from the docks, in a position where the high cliffs of the island's main land would make viewing it in escape impossible, even if anyone was watching the waters at this hour.

On the boat, Edward huddled up in a corner, hugging his knees. "I don't know!" he was crying. "I don't know. I-I . . . I am stupid. I'm stupid, and I had to cheat. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Leaving the little vessel to sail by its automatic small engine, Jonathan stood over him. He had no reason to deal with Edward anymore, but he found himself feeling sorry for him. He crouched down in front of him and touched his face. "No, no you're not stupid," he said, a little impatiently. "One more answer. Try again."

"Because . . . Because it can produce a few notes, though… they are very flat; and it is nevar put with the wrong end in front!" [ The misspelling is intentional; "nevar" is "raven" backwards.]

The pun was always lost in spoken word, but nonetheless, Crane told him, "Yes, yes, that's it. See? You knew it."

"No, no, I read it in a book somewhere," Edward said, shaking his head. He buried his head in his arms. "I'm stupid. A stupid cheater."

He began to cry, and Jonathan stood, exhaling. The sexual desire was still crackling through him, but there was nothing to be done about that on this boat. He stared down at Edward, contemplating the way the man's features were stricken malleable and honest as a little boy's. It was a strange dichotomy to witness. Jonathan wondered if there was a complete child inside every adult. Or were only shattered childhoods the ones to remain, their jagged pieces sticking into the brain like shards of glass?

Before long, Crane's pity had worn out, and he was struck by the urge to unleash another dose of fear gas on him. How entrancing he was when he was frightened; those green eyes so wide, and his lips trembling, his vain efforts to retain his pride, his intelligence, and the feeling of watching it crumble piece by piece as his precious mind betrayed him. It felt immeasurably good to bring such a smug, arrogant man down and humble him a bit. No man was rational enough to deny their own soul. Logic never held through when faced with the impossible. No man was strong enough to face himself and win.

Well . . . except for Batman, perhaps.

Jonathan looked out at Gotham City's skyline, black against the feeble rising sun, blotting out the fresh light. He needed the rest of this fear gas to study its formulation and perfect it, and could not waste it on Edward. Besides, it would be dangerous to attempt breaking a man completely on such a small boat.

Yet . . . Yet he almost didn't care . . .

Crane stared out at the orange and red dawn for a long time. When he finally glanced back at Edward, he found the man had fallen into a fitful sleep on the floor of the boat. The psychiatrist knelt down beside him, touching his troubled face. He would not be having pleasant dreams, that much was certain. Watching him murmur and cringe in his sleep, Jonathan felt that sympathy crawling back under his skin.

Jonathan found a blanket and covered him. He hesitated before standing again, transfixed by this new desire and fondness. He stroked the man's red hair, then his cheek. Finally, he gave in, and settled down with Edward in his arms, against his chest. He held him tenderly, and, in an eerie imitation of the mother he had long since murdered, began murmuring a lullaby.

"Go to sleep, go to sleep . . . hmm hm hm hm, hmm hm hm . . . "

His voice was as hushed and faraway as the quiet brush of the gentle waves. However, it calmed Edward's nightmares some, and he clung to the man in his sleep.

It was the first time in his entire life that he had ever been comforted.


	4. Chapter 4

**04**

The boat ran aground on a dirty, abandoned beach. By that time, both escaped inmates were asleep. They might have remained that way until the Gotham Coast Guard came searching, if Edward had not woken Dr. Crane up with jarring screams.

Jonathan woke up with a startled yell of his own, only to find Edward thrashing about in the blanket covering them. He tried to restrain him, took a blow to the chin, and then made more effort. He wrapped his long legs around Nigma's, and covered his mouth with one hand. "Shhhh! Be quiet!" He struggled to find a sufficient threat. He shook Nigma violently, settling on, "Do you want your father to hear you?"

Edward shut up instantly, shaking his head. "Mm mm."

"All right, then."

Crane released him, but Edward was in a bad state. He crumbled on the floor, clutching his head, wailing and moaning. "No, no, don't ignore me. I am smart, I am. I'm a genius. I am. Why don't you believe me? Listen to me. Please, listen! I didn't mean to cheat. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it."

Crane left him gibbering and stepped onto the shore. He looked out at the landscape, trying to determine their location. His mouth twitched in annoyance. He could have used Nigma and his memorized maps of Gotham City about now. Had he permanently ruined the Riddler's mind? Crane had seen fear gas put people into a state of shock or trauma for days. Would this batch be the one that went a step further?

Jonathan decided to use his old, still unknown hideout in an abandoned school building. There were lab supplies, beds, basic medical equipment, and the demolition was not scheduled for another six months (given Gotham contractors, Jonathan estimated this translated into a year at the very least). He could work on his formula, and Edward could sleep the effects of the fear gas off. If Crane needed a partner in crime or a test subject, Nigma would be there.

Crane came back to the boat, giving Nigma a weary glance. Edward was hugging his knees and rocking back and forth. Getting him out of Arkham had been difficult enough, and he did not feel like cajoling him all the way to the hideout. Fortunately, he kept a variety of chemicals on his costume for use at any given time. He crept over to Edward, humming that lullaby again, and caressed him for a few moments. When Nigma was calm enough, Crane stuck him with a sedative-laced needle (hidden in one of the straws in his hat). In moments, Nigma was unconscious. Scarecrow was usually the one being heaved about like a sack of straw (by Batman), but this time he was the one doing the carrying; he lifted Edward over one shoulder, grunting at the weight, and set off.

It was going to be a long, _long _morning.

* * *

Edward was more aware of himself when he awoke from the drug-induced sleep. His bleary eyes blinked into focus, but instead of seeing the same four stone walls, he saw nothing but blackness overhead. He turned his face on the pillow, and realized he was in a large, open room that looked like a hospital ward. It was night. His throat was raw and he coughed and swallowed several times before he was able to make even a wordless sound. He was heard, however, and footsteps approached.

"Wh . . . Wh . . . "

"Where are we?" an aloof, familiar voice provided. There were sounds of glass objects being shuffled about, then water running. "Safe, and far from Arkham, Edward."

Edward pulled himself up so he was half-sitting, propped up on his elbows, and his eyes fell upon Jonathan Crane. The man was not in the Scarecrow costume anymore, but wearing an old-fashioned brown suit. Only his eyes were recognizable from Scarecrow: they were always the same icy blue, with the same distant apathy.

"Get away from me!" Edward shrieked. "You- You- You _drugged _me!"

"Relax, the worst of it is over, sadly," Crane said. He handed the man a glass of water. "Drink this."

"No!" Edward hit the glass out of his hand; it flew and shattered on the linoleum floor. "You maniac! Do you know what you _did _to me? What you _put _me through?"

Crane could not help his lips tugging up at the corners, and turned his face to hide the smile. His brown hair fell over his eyes, and his profile had a straight, elegant line to it. Edward caught the smile, however, and scowled.

"You evil bastard!" he spat at him, attempting to climb down from the old, steel-framed bed. His feet were bare on the cold floor, and he stumbled when he tried to walk. To his chagrin, he fell right into Crane's arms, and had to cling to his shoulders for support. Blushing, he tried to push away from him. "Get the hell off me! How _dare _you! How dare you even look at me after what you did!"

"Now settle down. This is not healthy."

"You're not a doctor! Not anymore!" Edward exploded, struggling. "Get away from me!"

"But I treated you, didn't I?" Jonathan was strong, and he wrestled the man into the wall, held him there by the wrists. "Wasn't it . . . cathartic?"

"Why do people always use that as a positive adjective?" scoffed Edward, though he had stopped fighting, his body weak and disoriented. "Cathartic." He was released, and yanked his arms away from the former doctor. "Hmph. Yes, it _was _'cathartic': a vile, cold probe into the most secret and sensitive parts of my mind, completely _draining_ me."

Jonathan crossed his arms. "And don't you feel refreshed now that all that pain has drained away?"

"No, I don't!" snapped Edward. "I feel . . . " He sank onto the edge of the bed, exhaling wearily. "Tired. Just tired, and . . . and depressed."

Jonathan filled another glass with water and handed it to him. This time, Nigma took it and drank it in one go. As Crane refilled it for him, he asked softly, "Why?"

Crane handed the glass back. "Why, what?"

"Why do you . . . Oh, never mind," Edward said, shaking his head. "We all know the answer."

"No. Actually, no one knows the answer," Crane said. He hesitated, and then sat on the edge of the bed beside Edward. His eyes traced his worn, exhausted face, the pain in his eyes. The remnants of the frightened little boy were still there, beneath the facade of maturity.

Crane shook himself out of his observational woolgathering. "To put it in terms you understand . . . Question: Why do we do the things we are apt to do?"

Edward opened his mouth to answer, and realized that he had no answer. He shut it again, and bowed his head, running a hand through his hair. "Well . . . " He blew out a sigh of frustration. "That isn't a riddle! It's a question for philosophers!"

"Exactly. So many answers, yet not a single definitive answer. Who knows?" Crane replied. "Obviously, there _are_ reasons behind our actions, such as our countless back-stories and neuroses, our aspirations and egos. But there are many out there that would love to actually carry out such desires, and more, yet they do not. So, why do _we_? It is . . . " He smirked. "An enigma."

Edward crossed his arms. He was desperately turning the problem around in his mind, trying to think of some witty explanation, some summed-up reason for the mass of tangled minds feeding off of Arkham and this city.

"The answer is in the mind, but what _is _the mind, anyway?" Jonathan said thoughtfully, more to himself than to Nigma. "The mind is like your puzzle boxes, the ones you set to explode on your last robbery, remember?"

Edward nodded.

"The mind is a puzzle box," Jonathan repeated. "Fear, you see, is one of the great triggers. A spring, a button, a lever. Once pulled, pushed, it releases its influence. It permeates the entire structure and holds it in its grasp. It runs in and out of the endless maze, cold and gnawing away at the walls. It may not _solve _anything, since we are all helpless to defeat it, but it does bring the root of the problem to the surface. You see?"

Edward stared at him, impressed by his admittedly brilliant insight. "I follow."

"If you go far enough with it, it will bring the entire thing crashing down," Jonathan said, his eyes shining with delight. "Like a string of dominoes, each piece of intellect, reason, pride, all coming down one right after the other. It's beautiful."

Edward shook his head, shuddering uncontrollably. _I think I understand him now, _he thought. _But it's worse understanding him than not. He's rationally, utterly, unapologetically sadistic. He is truly evil. _

_But . . . brilliant._

Jonathan looked at him, and he winced beneath that basilisk's gaze. However, Crane merely touched the side of his face, with a disarmingly loving stroke. "Look at you," he murmured. "Always so arrogant, so sure of yourself. But it's all a disguise: a flamboyant, methodical act. Who has ever scratched the surface of that act? Who has ever _bothered _to?"

Edward crossed his arms. "Should I be _honored_ to be your victim, then?"

"My patient," Jonathan corrected. His hand slid down to Edward's neck, soothingly cool. "My most interesting patient . . . other than Batman."

"Why am I so interesting?" Edward asked miserably. His crossed arms shifted, until he was more hugging himself than anything. "It's simple, really, isn't it? Typical abused child profile: over-confidence masking insecurity, misunderstood and outcast by genius, obsessive-compulsive, desperation for attention due to lack of childhood recognition . . . Oh, it's a simple, ugly, petty little puzzle."

"Perhaps." Crane ruffled his hair. "Nonetheless, it intrigues me. _You _intrigue me. You have so many fears of incompetence and anonymity. Then, there is that deathly terror of abuse from your father, yet also . . . " He put a hand to his chin in thought. "Also, desire for it. Some deep-rooted guilt that makes you _want _to be hurt, to be caught. Fear of lying, of cheating. You are a mass of contradictions and complexes. No, Edward, you **are **interesting."

Edward felt inwardly pleased by this assessment, proud of standing out from the ordinary. "Well, if you say so, doctor," he grumbled, though he watched Crane from the corner of his eyes.

Crane smirked, understanding the hope in his eyes "I say so, Edward."

Nigma pulled his legs onto the bed, crossing them beneath him, and faced the man. He had been wondering when Crane had started using his first name, caressing him openly, treating him with . . . was it intimacy? More than that, he also wondered when he had decided he was okay with it, and why he was not protesting.

"Do you think I enjoyed being stripped of everything I've ever had to protect myself?" he asked quietly. "Do you think I wanted to be beaten and belittled?"

"I didn't actually _hit _you," Crane said. In a fast movement, he had pulled Nigma down onto his stomach on the bed, and yanked down the back of his pants. "You see? No bruises."

"H-hey, what are you-" Edward glanced over his shoulder; it was true, there was not a single welt or mark on his backside, thighs, or back. He rolled up his sleeves and looked at his hands and arms. All the painful bruises the belting had left behind were gone. They had never been made.

"Perhaps I should have," mused Crane, his eyes gratuitously moving over the other's half-unclothed body. "It would have been more . . . authentic."

Their eyes met, and Edward felt his cheeks blazing. He opened his mouth to say something outraged, but could not muster anything up. Crane smiled, a bit smugly, and then leaned down to kiss him.

Edward's body responded before his mind had a chance to comprehend it. He reached up and put his arms around the man's shoulders. They melted into each other, and Crane lifted his long legs up to sit fully on the bed. He drew Edward into his arms, and Ed wrapped his limbs around the man, desperate for the comfort of closeness. He, too, had been alone for a long time, and also felt all the years of solitude weighing down on him.

Jonathan peeled off the rest of Nigma's stolen janitor's uniform, fingertips occasionally resting lightly on the his warm skin, and then he undressed himself. Moonlight shone in feebly through the dusty, cracked windows of the abandoned school building. The beams glinted on the frames of Crane's glasses and glossed over his dark hair. The moonlight gave Jonathan's pale skin an eerie glow, contrasting the shadows in the deep hollows of his bony figure. There could not be an ounce of fat on Jonathan's lean body, Edward noted, and every muscle was taut with wiry strength. Crane did not need his costume to look inhuman, Nigma thought. He looked otherworldly in the moonlight.

"I- I . . . "

"Shh," Crane hushed him, burying his face in his neck and kissing his collarbone. "Don't be-" He cut himself off, grinning knowingly at Edward; they both knew he would never tell anyone _not _to be afraid. "Well. Just be still."

Edward watched him uneasily, but the desire was too strong to fight back. As Crane kissed his chest, he exhaled, shutting his eyes in pleasure. What the hell? Why not?

"You're so scared," Jonathan mused as he straddled Edward. He ran his tongue over Edward's abashed face, down his neck, and grinned. "Oh. You're shaking."

Edward was indeed trembling, his skin hot but still broken out into gooseflesh. Jonathan's spindly fingers eased him into arousal, seeming to know exactly where to touch. There was an amazing level of command in the thin man, and he swiftly took charge of Edward. The more he steered him, surprisingly, the more Edward longed for the control. Jonathan chuckled at his struggle to challenge him, not relinquishing his superiority for a second.

Edward gripped his shoulders tightly, gasping as the other man drove into him suddenly. He realized the other was inside him, physically _and _mentally, and felt violated, confused. But as Jonathan had surmised, a part of him _did _want it. He wanted it very much.

Jonathan's breath was labored, as he pulled the man closer, impossibly close. "Heh." He smiled down at him. "I know . . . I know you want to. Go ahead . . . huh . . . cry." His long fingernails dug into Edward's arms, nearly breaking the skin. "_Scream _for me. I know you're a- . . . afraid. You can't hide it- mmph- from me."

Cry out he did, finally, and he felt himself breaking down again. Jonathan was lost in ecstasy, even after it ended. He collapsed on his back beside Nigma, who sank down from hand and knee onto his stomach. Shaking violently with exhaustion, he crawled onto Jonathan's chest. He was sobbing again, and did not make the effort to stop. Crane's skin was slick with myriad body fluids, but he did not mind. He stroked the back of Edward's head, shivering as Nigma's wet eyelashes tickled his skin. His fingers grazed Edward's spine, from the base of his neck to between his shoulder-blades.

Without saying a word, Edward lifted his tear-stained face. He wiped his face with the back of his arm, wiping that on the side of the mattress they were on. His precious mind had indeed been decimated, devoid of any coherent thought. Yet the experience was liberating, and he threw himself into it. Raw with need, Edward rushed into a voracious kiss. Jonathan met it with equal force, and took him into his arms again.

They made love in anger and despair and lunacy. It was unclear whether they were trying to break each other, themselves, or the shackles of Arkham- perhaps they wished to break the world. It was a dance and a fight. All the lonely frustration was burned away with the night's chill.

Real freedom was having the luxury to enslave or be enslaved. The world was really an infinite set of nesting puzzle boxes, one inside the other. In a smaller way, so were people.


	5. Chapter 5

**05**

Jonathan Crane was lost in thought as he lay on the old school infirmary cot, Edward nestled into his side, an arm slung over his chest. There was only a thin blanket covering them, and Edward was curled into most of it. His face was still wet with tears, but he had a placid expression on his face. Crane was stroking his shoulder absently.

Jonathan had never actively pursued another Arkham inmate sexually. The fear gas certainly gave him plenty of opportunity, but watching his victims' nightmares had always sufficed. In fact, he had seldom thought about any of them sexually. Years of repressing his sex drive from being sheltered and kept home by his mother had destroyed any trace of sexuality. Or so he had believed.

But he could not deny how _complete _it felt to have defiled someone both physically and mentally. He felt different, more of a man and less of the stifled, angry child that Scarecrow had been born from. It was refreshing. It was … _addicting_.

His eyes went down to Edward, who was silently crying into him now. A nightmare must have waked him. Poor thing. Yes, he did pity him, though he enjoyed his suffering. He had never pitied anyone before. This also felt good, to have sympathy for a change instead of being left cold once the torment was over. He realized then that in comforting Edward, he was also comforting himself.

"I love you."

"No," Edward said certainly, wiping one eye with a fist. "You don't."

"I suppose not," Jonathan smiled. He tipped Edward's face up to his own by the bottom of his chin, rubbed tears away with his thumb. "However, you are my favorite patient."

Edward looked at him expectantly.

"Because you are brilliant and unique," Jonathan said, telling him what he knew he needed to hear. "No one, not even Batman, has been such a pleasure to treat."

"But Batman has resisted," grumbled Edward. "I wasn't able to. I wasn't strong enough. My mind is . . . it-it's weak! Inferior!"

"No, you merely chose to let me break you," Jonathan said. "Remember? You _wanted _it."

"The guilt . . . " Edward shook his head, rubbing his temple. "Stop. Please, please stop. I don't want to think about myself anymore. I don't want to be . . . Edward Nigma anymore."

Jonathan sat up straighter against the steel bars of the bed, pulling Edward up closer. "Then, why don't we suspend treatment for now? We are free, after all."

Edward looked up at him, and then began to smile. "That's right, we escaped . . . "

"So, what do you say, then?" Jonathan asked, eyes glinting behind his glasses. He wiped away the last of Edward's tears, and kissed his broad forehead. "It might be interesting for the Scarecrow and the Riddler to set a little bat-trap, don't you think?"

He was giving Edward his clothes back, allowing him just that much more of a line to pull himself up with an inch or two. Edward knew it, but was merely grateful. The power of fear truly was one of the most formidable in all of nature, and now he knew firsthand that Jonathan Crane wielded it masterfully.

"Yes, I believe it _would_," he agreed with a devilish smile. Then he sighed, laying back down on Crane's chest. "Tomorrow night . . . we'll storm the city . . . together."

Jonathan hugged him, kissed his shoulder, and leaned his head back against the pillow. Thoroughly satisfied, he no less began planning for his next conquest. He smiled to himself as he thought of the fear and confusion they would unleash upon the citizens, upon the Batman. Let Edward regain himself. Once in his right mind, the Riddler would make a welcomed accomplice, as he also attacked the mind. Jonathan could work on the emotional mind, while Riddler could conquer the cerebral. It was a perfect match, actually.

"And then the bough will break . . . and more minds will fall . . . "

**END**


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